


Stuck On You

by This Girl Is (non_sequential)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beltane, Food Sex, M/M, PWP, general foolishness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/pseuds/This%20Girl%20Is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco spent a lot of time planning a romantic Beltane interlude, and now he’s covered in shame and honey. This is the second worst Beltane ever. (At least this year no one’s getting killed. That’s about all that can be said in its favour.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck On You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigersilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/gifts).



> Written for Tigersilver for HDS Beltane 2011

This whole Beltane malarkey is not all it's cracked up to be.

Draco's parents had always taken him to see the bonfires lit; the promise of warmth returning to the world after the bleakness of winter. They had stayed to see the herd of cattle kept by their tenant farmer driven between them, to bring fertility and prosperity. They had always taken him home when _people_ started leaping between the fires; couples holding hands and leaping together, the crowds laughing and cheering, the couples kissing.

When he’d been small, it hadn't bothered him much. He'd been fascinated by the leaps, desperate to try it himself, but he hadn't been able to see the point of jumping with someone else when surely you could get higher and further without another person to hold you back. But it had only ever been couples jumping, and after the first few it had got a bit dull. He'd been happy enough to let his parents take his hands, his father carrying a branch lit from the Beltane fires to relight the fires in the Manor, Apparating him home for a warm mug of mulled cider before going to bed.

When he was eight, he was allowed to carry the torch and set it to the cold, freshly cleaned hearth in the kitchens. At thirteen he'd overheard Pansy and Daphne giggling about holding hands and kissing by the fires, and had laughed and made dirty jokes with Blaise and Theo about Maypoles and the erecting thereof. Not that any of them actually got anywhere near Maypoles, or anything else that blatantly inflammatory to hormonal teenagers, while they were at school. At seventeen he’d spared a moment’s thought from battle to fret about the Manor, its hearth cold and empty for Beltane, and no one to bring the flame home this year, if ever. At nineteen he'd barely been able to stand near the bonfires at all.

This Beltane, however, is taking the cake. The giant, humiliation-frosted with a cherry (hah!) on top, cake of awfulness.

It was supposed to be romantic. Beltane was for new beginnings and, quite frankly, sex. The weather was just warm enough for doing it outside while surrounded by the earth putting out flowers, that general air of fertility and horniness, and full of the proverbial joys of spring. It should have been fucking fool-proof, but life does like to prove him the greater fool time and time again.

“Draco, come on,” Harry says, “it's not the end of the world.” He’s laughing, though. Draco sort of thinks that, in the circumstances, Harry laughing at him actually might mean the end of the world. His world, at least. The thing is, it’s all so fucking mortifying, and he’s beginning to feel like he might actually just sit there in all his sticky glory and _cry_. And if that happens, it’s all over. He can never see Harry again. It’s already touch and go whether they can come back from this.

He'd been right about one thing though. The light from the bonfires fucking _loves_ Harry. The diffuse light limns him golden, throwing the gentlest of shadows to emphasise the light curvature of muscle in his arms and torso, and deceptive fragile-looking hollows at his wrists.

Whereas Draco probably looks sickly-pale and is covered in honey, and he’s pretty sure he’s beginning to stick to the blanket. Maybe Harry will go away, and Draco can just roll himself up in the blanket and hide in it forever. He made the little bower for privacy, so maybe no one would ever find him.

“Draco.” Harry’s tone has turned wheedling. Draco looks away from him and scowls, tugging at one of the ribbons that ties the sweet-smelling herbs and flowers to the boughs that form the walls. “ _Draco_. Come on, don’t sulk.”

It’s alright for _him_ to say. _He_ isn’t the one covered in honey and ribbons, and generally looking like a twat in a failed attempt at a grand romantic gesture. Any minute now there’ll be _ants_ , he’s sure.

Harry puts his hand on Draco’s thigh. It probably feels disgusting. Well, he knows it does. He’s the one completely covered in it. He is acutely, indeed _intimately_ , aware of how revolting it feels. It doesn’t seem to be putting Harry off, though. A curious, speculative look crosses his face for a moment and he runs his hand down Draco’s thigh, the honey tugging at the hairs on Draco’s leg, making him even more aware of the touch. And then he licks his hand, his tongue fully out, laying broad swathes against his palm, the way he does when he wanks, getting the palm good and wet. Draco’s cock twitches just thinking about it. It feels peculiar as the movement of his cock pulls at his pubes, caught in the honey. It’s still awkward and embarrassing, but the strange sensation somehow focuses his attention on his groin in a way it isn’t usually.

The hand returns to his thigh, sliding smoothly over the honey now, this time moving up so the fingertips can caress the soft skin of the crease at the top of his leg. Harry licks absently at the honey covering his palm again as he speculatively eyes Draco’s cock. “I’ve never had sex with someone covered in honey before,” he says, and Draco’s shoulders, which had been relaxing under the attention, stiffen once more with embarrassment. Harry ignores him though, to leer at his cock.

“Fuck you, Potter,” he spits.

Thankfully, Harry has developed a rather thicker skin over the years, and merely replies, “Mmmm, that’s pretty much the plan,” before pushing at the centre of Draco’s chest and shoving him onto his back. The move is so totally unexpected that Draco instinctively flails for balance and narrowly avoids kicking Harry square in the face. Because what this situation _really_ needs, the thing that would make it just _perfect_ is for him to bust Harry’s nose.

He stops thinking about Harry’s nose, or the damn honey, or much of anything, really, when Harry sucks his balls into his mouth and rolls them gently with his tongue.

He automatically wraps one leg around Harry’s shoulders. The position is familiar, but the thick resistance of the honey against the smooth, warm breadth of Harry’s shoulders adds something that is, despite the awkwardness and discomfort, a little exciting.

When Harry is done with his balls, having sucked and lapped them clean, he moves to his cock. He licks a warm, wet stripe up the underside. There is something sticky shining in his hair, just above the scar. Draco isn’t sure whether it’s honey or his pre-come, but it’s surprisingly hot, either way.

Harry sucking his cock has always been enough to drive coherent thought from Draco’s mind. It’s so clear from the almost rapturous expression on his face as his mouth stretches and his cheeks hollow that he loves it, and god knows he’s _good_ at it. He alternates the pace, sometimes sucking hard and fast, sometimes moving so slowly, his mouth just barely making contact with the overheated hardness of Draco’s cock, interspersed with the occasional gentle lick. This time is no different, and Draco writhes beneath Harry’s mouth and the hands that hold his sticky hips down against the blanket until Harry pulls off, with a satisfied, “There.” His mouth is full and bruised-looking, his eyes glittering, and Draco doesn’t need to be able to see the flush across his cheeks to know it’s there.

“Lube?” Harry asks, even though he’s already rummaging in the discarded knapsack for it, and this is it. He can pull himself together, take the lube from Harry, stretch him out with his fingers and have sticky sex on the sticky blanket and then go home. It will be brilliant, because it pretty much always is. But that wasn’t actually the plan. It’s not the _point_. It’s not what he did all of this for, even if it hasn’t exactly gone to plan.

Harry has found the lube. It’s open in one hand, and he’s holding Draco’s hand in his other, about to slick up his fingers. Draco folds his fingers down over Harry’s hand and manages to force out a strangled, “Wait.”

“Can- I want- Will you-“ Fuck, what is he thinking? He can’t even fucking _say_ it. Harry’s hand tightens around his, and he clings back, trying to remember how certain he is of Harry, of them together. He takes a deep breath and goes for it. “I want you to fuck me.”

In the low light from the fires, Harry’s pupils are already huge, but his sudden breath suggests that they’d be blown wide now, no matter the light. The slightly unhinged look of Harry, desperately turned on, is something Draco revels in, and it’s right in front of him now.

“Really? I mean, you’re sure?” It’s a little breathy, as though Harry’s run a race.

He’s not quite sure enough to be able to say it again with any conviction, so he just nods tightly, not quite able to meet Harry’s eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t want it, he does. Harry, over him, inside him, stretching him out, filling him up, god, he wants it. It’s just that he hasn’t ever, and it’s, well. It scares him, not that he’ll ever say _that_ out loud, not even to Harry.

“OK. I- OK.” Harry sits back on his heels and looks down at Draco, sprawled out and sticky on the blanket, in the shelter of the little bower. Cheers from the crowds around the fires filter up to their little shelter. At least one of the ribbons which, apparently, he had tied poorly, brushes against Harry’s messy dark hair, and one of the little bundles of herbs is getting tangled in it. Harry still manages to look like a golden god, his cock gloriously erect as he looks down at Draco, defenceless beneath him. He looks solemn.

“Right,” Harry says with a nod. “Over with you, then.” He follows up the command with a hand at Draco’s hip.

Draco is about to protest – he wants to at least be able to see what’s happening, when Harry leans over him to whisper in his ear, “On your knees for me, Draco.” And really, how do you argue with that? He lets Harry arrange him to his satisfaction. He finds himself on his knees, lying forward over his thighs, his head resting on his folded arms. Harry’s hands are resting on his arse. He expected to feel dreadfully exposed like this. He didn’t expect to like it.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry whispers, reverent.

Draco is feeling sufficiently better about this whole thing to reply, “That’s pretty much the plan,” with a smirk.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels what can only be Harry’s tongue against his exposed arsehole. Harry bites the flesh of one arse cheek, then soothes it with his tongue, and Draco whimpers a little.

“That’s more like it,” Harry says, before returning his attention to Draco’s arsehole. They’ve never talked about this, about any of this. Draco was pretty sure that Harry wanted to fuck him, but he had no clue that apparently he was very keen on rimming the life out of him, too.

It’s like nothing they’ve ever done before. And it’s not like they haven’t tried plenty, but nothing has ever felt quite this _intimate_ , as Harry stiffens his tongue and presses it _in_ , thrusting and pumping it slightly to get deeper. Draco tries not to think about the fact that those desperate little noises are probably coming from him, because he’s damned if he can stop making them. Harry pulls his tongue out for a moment to press it against the soft skin behind balls. When he seals his mouth around it and sucks, Draco sobs. His back bows to push his hips back. At this point, the only thing he’s really worried about is getting more.

Harry returns to his hole, lapping gently around the edge, slick, wet, and hot. Draco’s body is a mess of hot flashes and cold chills, and he can’t stop rolling and thrusting with his hips for the friction of his cock against his thighs and belly. When Harry slips a lubed finger in next to his tongue it feels large and alien, and Draco is lost. He sinks his teeth into his forearm to muffle his sobs as his body seizes like he’s going to shake himself apart.

When he comes to himself, Harry is carefully draped over his back, kissing his shoulders and the back of his neck, whispering endearments. He can feel the hard heat of Harry’s erection against his hip, and the sticky warmth of his own come on his belly and chest. As he takes a deep breath he realises that Harry’s finger is still inside him, not moving but very much _present_ , and he thoughtlessly clenches against it. He’s not sure whether the whimper comes from him or Harry.

“Sorry,” he mutters at the blanket in front of his face, voice hoarse and face hot with embarrassment.

“You’re amazing like this,” Harry murmurs against his shoulder and twists his finger. His cock is soft in the cradle of his thighs, and he’s wrung out from his orgasm, but it feels good and he pushes back against it a little. Harry scrapes his teeth lightly over one of the vertebrae between Draco’s shoulder blades as the thrusts the finger in and out a couple of times, and Draco feels the urge to purr. When Harry nudges a second finger up against the first, he arches his back in encouragement.

His brain’s still not quite working right, and he doesn’t try to make it, just lies there and enjoys the feeling of Harry working his fingers into him, the push and pull of it, the stretch. When Harry starts rubbing his thumb over the tight ring of muscle stretched around his fingers, Draco’s cock gives a twitch and he lets out a groan. Surely it’s too soon. He can’t possibly get hard so soon after an orgasm like that, can he?

Harry kisses a trail down his back, pausing to lick at the delicate skin at the small of his back before settling back to lick in between the two fingers stretching Draco’s arse, and it becomes immediately apparent that, in fact, he _can_ get hard again. It feels like too much. His cock is sensitive from coming not more than ten minutes ago, he hasn’t got his head back together yet, and he feels like a boneless mass of more sensation than he knows how to deal with. He can feel his whole body twitching and shaking in response to what Harry’s doing to him, feels his hips push back against hand and mouth, hears sounds that he knows must be coming from his own mouth – Harry’s name, random words and some not so random words like, “More”, “Please”, and “Yes”, not to mention the sobs and moans. He can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed.

He feels like he might float away when Harry pulls his fingers out. There might have been three of them by then, he’s not really sure, then Harry is pressed along his back again, weighing him down with the heat and strength of his body.

It takes a moment to realise that Harry is talking to him. “Draco? Can I? Please, Draco, now. Can I? Please.” His voice is hoarse and breathless, with that edge he gets when Draco teases him until he’s desperate.

He’s not teasing now. He’s beyond teasing, and he wants it, wants it so badly. “Please. Yes. God. Harry.”

The feeling of Harry pressing into him, finally, is exquisite. The pressure and the stretch, and the sound of Harry babbling in his ear, “So tight. So good. Draco, Christ.” He throws his head back to rest against Harry’s shoulder, and even the stretch of his own bare throat is sensuous. Harry licks up his throat as he thrusts into him, shallow but quick.

Weirdly, the hot slick thrust of Harry’s tongue in the shell of his ear is what sends him over.

As the world whites out around the edges, he feels Harry stiffen around him, against him, in him, and a flood of warmth inside.

ooOoo

Eventually a cramp in his hip forces him to move. Harry’s weight across his back is making it hard to breathe, and he’s a little afraid that, between the come and the honey, his leg hairs and chest hairs have glued themselves together in a way that will mean excruciating pain when he tries to separate the two. He contemplates just tipping Harry off him but, though soft, Harry’s cock is still inside him, and he’d prefer to take changing that a bit carefully. Instead, he shifts his own weight a bit to free up an arm. Ignoring the complaints of his shoulder, he reaches back to elbow Harry in the ribs. “Off!”

Harry just mumbles vaguely at him.

“Need oxygen! Get off!” He is a bit more forceful with his elbow this time.

Harry’s mumbles are more grumbles this time, but he starts to move and after a bit of manoeuvring Draco is on his side, breathing properly and trying to rub the feeling back into his calves and feet. Harry keeps pausing in the rubbing to drop kisses on Draco’s toes, ankle, whatever happens to be in reach at the time. Harry doesn’t seem to have noticed the bright blue and yellow ribbons still tangled in his hair, which Draco is going to tease him mercilessly about later. Harry also hasn’t managed actual words yet, and Draco’s feeling quite pleased with himself. The better the orgasm, the longer it takes Harry to get language back online. He hasn’t been this quiet for this long after in _ages_.

He expects to have his belly and thighs kissed better later, too. They had to conjure warm water to get his legs unstuck from his chest, and he still lost quite a number of hairs in the process.

Suddenly Harry jerks and topples to his side. “Fucking ow,” he says in that disgruntled tone that Draco will never admit out loud he finds deeply adorable. Especially when combined with that scowl. “Fucking _nettles_ ,” is all he says before going back to the rubbing and kissing. It is, despite the afterglow and the overall success of his plan, enough to stir up the insecurities of earlier.

He doesn’t say anything, but Harry glances up at him and frowns, then tugs a red ribbon from where it was hanging to a branch by a thread. He crawls up to Draco and very carefully ties it in a bow around a thin clump of Draco’s hair and gives Draco a quick kiss.

“Home then?” Harry asks. “A nice hot bath for you, the first aid kit for me. And maybe a nice cup of tea. You know,” he adds with a sly glance, “if there’s any honey left.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry licks Draco’s arm, and they sit and watch the couples leaping the Beltane fires out in the field, hand in hand, for a while.

“We should go collect some embers to take home and get the hearth lit,” Harry says, making vague movements towards locating his pants.

“Mmm,” Draco agrees vaguely. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh good,” Harry replies. “That’s worked out quite well for me so far today.”

Draco smacks him in the shoulder. “I just thought, you know, maybe next year we could jump the fire.” He tugs at a piece of lavender that has stuck to his leg and doesn’t look at Harry at all. “Together.”

Harry abandons the search for his t-shirt to sit behind Draco, arms wrapped around his still sticky middle and chin propped on his shoulder. “Definitely working out well for me.”


End file.
